I, Randolph Blake
by JacksonFarrell
Summary: "I was with Randolph Blake the night before we sailed." But what was Blake thinking? And how did he manage to make such a disparate group of people hate him? Here are the events of that fateful night from Blake's POV. Prequel to "Not Guilty."
1. A Unique Distinction

**I, Randolph Blake**

Chapter 1

A Unique Distinction

Whew. What a night. Back in Kansas, the Methodist preacher used to say, "Be sure your sin will find you out." Starting to look like he had a point.

It began about half an hour past closing time tonight. It began with a surprise visit from old Howell.

I knew him on sight. No big feat - lots of folks who've never met Thurston Howell III would know him on sight. Cover of _Time_ , cover of _Fortune_ , and so on. But I knew him because I worked for him back in New York. That is, until about eighteen months ago, when the Sybil Wentworth business blew up in my face. Even then, he didn't dump me; just exiled me to Honolulu to run this penny-ante boating-supply store. Being that it _is_ in Honolulu, he may have thought he was exercising clemency.

Still, despite the personal connection, I was surprised to see Howell himself. That guy owns half the world - oil, mines, commercial real estate, plantations, factories that make everything from million-dollar fighter jets to batteries for your radio. I'm one measly little manager in a boating-supply chain that's a footnote to a footnote in the Howell Industries annual report. If Howell Industries wanted to fire me, they employ maybe a thousand hatchet men to do that sort of thing. Maybe Howell thought a hatchet man sent to Hawaii would cheat on the expense account.

He had his wife in tow, but the personal visit from Howell was such a shock, I actually didn't notice her. Not until later.

He wasted no time on amenities. "Well, Mr. Randolph Blake. You have a unique distinction, sir: manager of the one and only store in the entire Howell Boating Emporium chain that has been losing money. You've been dipping into the till."

"The till"? What was this, Victorian melodrama? But Howell always talked like that.

"Dipping into the till, indeed," I said. "You insult me, sir."

He did, too. I never stole a dime from any till. I was much sneakier than that.

What I was actually doing was selling high-end equipment to certain business associates of Rita's dad at extremely steep discounts, for cash. Sometimes a little of that cash actually went _into_ the till, on the pretext that it was a down payment for the merchandise - in fact, the only payment the Howell Boating Emporium would ever see for that particular item. (Well, how was I supposed to know some guy would make a down payment, walk off with my merchandise, and never be heard from again?) The rest of the cash - well, I kept that. Or, to be precise, passed it along to my bookie.

I varied the M.O., naturally, so it wouldn't look like I was repeatedly falling for the same con. Some of the merchandise went onto the books as "lost" or "damaged in transit." If the store was actually losing money, I guess we were too greedy. But Arthur's associates _are_ pretty greedy, and not easy guys to say "no" to.

But back to Howell. "Insult you, Blake? Yes, and I'll insult you more. You're a cad, a scoundrel, a sneak thief." He shook his finger at me. "If you think I'm going to stand for _this_ , you're dead wrong. My accountants are on your trail, Blake. I have more and better accountants than anyone. They'll wrap your whole sordid scheme up in a bow and present it to the prosecuting attorney, courtesy of Howell Industries. You're going to prison, sir. Yes - prison!"

Maybe - and my heart quailed for a moment. But maybe not; my future father-in-law has a little clout around here, probably more than a complete outsider like Howell. Of course, Arthur could just as easily have me clipped as put the fix in for me. But my hole card there was being engaged to Rita.

That gave me the courage to talk back to Howell. "Well, sir, you _may_ be able to send me there - if you bribe the judge enough. Unless, of course, the judge is an old school chum of yours. In _that_ case, I should be safe - frankly, I doubt whether anyone who knows you would do you such a favor, however high the bribe."

Lovey Howell, silent until now, spoke.

"You're a horrible, nasty man," she hissed. "You deserve a sound thrashing."

"A thrashing?" Howell said. "I shall do even more than that!"

Very dramatic. What he actually did was walk to the pay phone by the door and ask his wife for a dime.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I haven't a dime," she said.

"Well. I'll simply have to use the car phone, then. Come along."

I suppose I could have offered him a dime from the till, as long as it wasn't a personal phone call. But I thought I wouldn't.

I wonder who he was going to call. Well, I guess I'll find out soon enough.

I'm not too worried about getting fired anyway. After the wedding, Rita and I are going to Vegas with Arthur, and he's planning to put me to work in a casino. More fun, more money. No, Howell can have his crummy boating store back whenever he wants it.

What really shook me up tonight was Lovey. If she only knew the right people, she could make sure I get that "thrashing" she wished on me. And if she could, I know damn well she would.

I know Lovey. The venom in that well-bred voice had nothing to do with anything I've stolen, or even what I said to her husband.

It was all about Sybil.


	2. Sybil Wentworth

Chapter 2

Sybil Wentworth

I met Sybil Wentworth at a tea party at the Sunnybrook Yacht Club on a cloudless summer day in 1962.

I was working at Howell Industries HQ then, with some such title as "Special Assistant to the Chairman." It was a pretty good step up from the bank in Horner's Corners, not to mention the feed store in Winfield (and believe me, when I worked in New York, I never mentioned the feed store in Winfield).

The bank in Horner's Corners was where I got my start in business, my first job when I came home after getting eighty-sixed from college in my senior year. I worked hard for once - I bet we foreclosed on a thousand farms just in 1955 - and I got a good look at how old Rufus Higgenbotham operated. When I left the bank to go into business with Jack Summers, I went with old Rufe's blessing. And when the feed store hit the rocks, and I decided to clear out, it was old Rufe I went to for help. Rufus didn't operate on a national scale, or anything like that, but he knew people who did. It took time, but inside of a year the job at Howell Industries was all lined up for me.

And so I was in the right place at the right time when Sybil Wentworth hove into view.

She was related to Lovey Howell somehow - niece, second cousin, I don't know what - and Lovey was our hostess that day. She'd seen to it that Sybil and I were both seated at her table. Early on, Lovey had taken me in hand and taught me how to, as she put it, "handle the appurtenances at a tea party," and how to behave in general. And I guess I did all right.

Sybil was twenty, languid, blonde, slender, anemic-looking. I was seeing Ginger Grant then on a semi-regular basis (and without Lovey's knowledge), and Sybil couldn't compete physically with that. But I knew all these Wentworths were loaded. This one was a shipping heiress. That made her look like Marilyn Monroe.

So I engaged her in small talk and did my best to charm her. She didn't seem to notice, but Lovey did, and I think it pleased her. At any rate, about a week later, I was asked to dine at the Howells' Park Avenue penthouse, and guess who the only other guest was?

Sybil still seemed immune to my charm. But then, as I was to learn, she hardly ever showed enthusiasm over anything. Lovey, at least, seemed delighted that I was making the effort. Old Howell was a gracious enough host, but I think he would rather have been in his den, watching the Asian stock prices come over the ticker.

Eventually, Lovey left the dining room - "to see to the champagne," she said - and dragged Howell out with her. That left me and Sybil alone at the table.

I smiled warmly at her, but before I could say anything, she lifted a hand.

"Look," she said, "I don't want you to get any wrong ideas. Lovey's been doing this since I was seventeen. She's an absolute dear, of course, and she worries about me as if I were her own daughter. She's afraid I won't marry, and consequently won't be happy. So she drags me to some tea party or benefit, and she shanghais some other poor soul into it, usually some nice polite chinless boy from Choate or St. Paul's whose family has been known to the Wentworths since the Louisbourg Expedition."

She laughed abruptly. "I'll say this much for you - at least you're something different. But please don't feel that you've any obligation. I can just tell Lovey that I'm not especially interested in you. She won't blame you a bit, and she'll leave you alone, I promise."

I winked. "Well, but what makes you so sure I want to be left alone?"

She sighed. "Mr. Blake, be serious. You strike me as a man who has no trouble obtaining female companionship for any occasion. Surely you don't need Lovey to manage your social life. What you do need is continued employment, and be honest: if you didn't work for Howell Industries, would you be wasting your charm on me?"

So she _had_ noticed. "False modesty, Miss Wentworth? It doesn't become you. It's true that I know a lot of women. Speaking from my experience, I think you can compete in any league - if you want to." Not exactly Romeo, but hearts-and-flowers and come-with-me-to-the-Casbah weren't going to work on this one. (Like I said: experience.) She wanted straightforwardness, sincerity - I could fake that. Above all, she wanted someone who would rise to a challenge and throw a challenge back.

I wanted access to her bankbook.

"Tell you what, Miss Wentworth. Suppose we keep company this summer, anyway? If nothing else, it'd mean two whole months before you'd have to worry about Mrs. Howell inflicting another chinless preppie on you."

She laughed - this time, a warm laugh that left a grin behind. I couldn't believe it. A grin! (What would the Wentworth ancestors think?)

"Mr. Blake - excuse me. Perhaps we'd better make it 'Randolph' and 'Sybil.' Randolph, you've got a deal."

We shook on it. She had a firm grip.


	3. Trust

Chapter 3

Trust

Sybil and I "kept company" the rest of the summer, going out one or two evenings a week and usually spending our Saturdays together. Some nights, Broadway or the opera; others, a movie, a party, or just a drive through the city in Sybil's Buick Electra, with the top down. Saturdays, we'd usually go out to lunch, then a matinee (not _that_ kind), or shopping, or a few sets of tennis. Or we'd just take a long walk through the city, followed by an early supper.

Once, I remember, we were at a corner table in a quiet bar when we ran into an acquaintance of mine from Kansas: Rufus Higgenbotham's boy Horace. Old Rufe's connections had gotten the kid into Columbia's Class of '64 and a summer job at Chemical Bank. I wondered how he was getting along there; the Horace I remembered was a bit spoiled and more than a bit lazy. That gave me some headaches when he worked for me at the feed store.

Still, I always had a soft spot for the kid - because he looked up to _me_. That was a new thing for me, and it kind of turned my head. For instance, on Horace's sixteenth birthday, his dad gave him a car, a brand-new Plymouth Fury. I gave him something that would make the car that much more useful to him, and I don't mean a can of Turtle Wax. What I gave him was the address and phone number of a certain house I knew in Kansas City - the _real_ Kansas City, the one on the Kansas side of the line. Thank God Rufus never found out about _that_ , but he didn't, and all's well that ends well.

Anyway, I introduced him to Sybil, and we talked for a few minutes before Horace broke away to go back to his group of friends. A couple of weeks later, I got in touch with the kid and took him to lunch - no use letting old connections get stale, and maybe old Rufe could still help me sometime - and he mentioned Sybil, describing her as "kinda cute." Not really the word I'd have picked, but then Horace was still pretty callow.

Nothing too serious, I told him. She was headed back to Radcliffe in the fall and she'd forget me, but we were having fun in the meantime.

"You think so?" Horace asked. "She seemed pretty sweet on you. I think she likes you a lot."

That got me thinking. She had taken to calling me "dear" quite often, and sometimes upgraded it to "darling." I hadn't much noticed because I'd spent a year in Hollywood, where "darling" is what women call other women they dislike. She was also touching me occasionally, just lightly brushing her hand against mine over a table for two, or taking my hand on a Saturday walk in the park - pretty daring for a Daughter of the Wentworths, at that.

Maybe Horace was onto something.

The next Friday evening, before I dropped her off, I tried a goodnight kiss - just a little one, very chaste, but on the lips. She jumped a little, and I thought, _Damn, too far too fast._ But she didn't pull away. In fact, she leaned into it. We said goodnight and I left, thinking maybe next time I'd try putting my arms around her first.

By August, we were seeing each other four nights a week, plus Saturdays. Luckily, Ginger was busy in Hollywood and didn't make it to New York all summer. Great girl, Ginger, lots of fun, but awfully time-consuming.

Come September, I got a little surprise: Sybil and I were still seeing each other. Not during the week, of course; she was up at school then. But she drove down in the Electra every Friday after her ten o'clock class adjourned. We'd go out Friday, spend Saturday together just as we'd done all summer, she'd go to church with her family Sunday morning, then drive back up to school.

During the week, I'd see Ginger when she was in town. I was careful not to take her places where I was known, though, so that was all right.

But I couldn't spend all my time with the ladies. Like a lot of men, I know a little about sports, and like a lot of men I like to bet a little on sports. The guy who ran the lobby newsstand in the Howell Building knew another guy who would take a bet. (I knew Kansas City and New York couldn't be _that_ different.) In July, he gave me the guy's phone number. That was how I met Jimmy - known to the government as Vincent Something-or-other, but Jimmy to his pals.

Maybe I don't know as much about sports as I thought. Baseball, anyway. I kept losing twenty- and fifty-dollar bets on a regular basis. Come World Series time, I was into Jimmy for about two grand, and he was getting antsy about getting paid. He would call me at the office and drop little hints. How was business? Was I doing all right? Did I need a loan to tide me over? He just happened to know this guy Sonny who loaned out money on a strictly informal basis, one of those old-fashioned guys who does business with a handshake. Trust was a very important thing. By the way, how about the crime problem in the city these days? Terrible, no?

Obviously I was going to have to pay Jimmy. And fairly soon - he wasn't going to wait much longer. Also obviously, it wasn't going to be easy to lay my hands on two grand, or any substantial fraction thereof, all at once. I couldn't ask the Howells. I didn't want to borrow from Jimmy's friend Sonny, or even meet him, if I could help it.

But who did I know who liked me a lot, and was also a shipping heiress?

That Saturday night, after dinner, I asked Sybil up for a nightcap. She seemed eager. Maybe she was expecting me to ask her something else.

We sat down on my living-room couch and I laid it all out for her. I needed two thousand dollars or I was going to get hurt.

Tears came to her eyes.

"Oh, Randolph, what are we to do? I can't give you any money - I haven't any to give."

What?

"My money is in _trust_ , Randolph. I won't get the principal until I'm thirty. Even the income is distributed at the trustee's discretion - and my father is the trustee. He reinvests it and pays my bills with his own money. My bills - clothing, tuition, room and board - those all go to Father. I get a very little spending money, in case I want to take a taxi or have an occasional meal out. You can have all of it, darling, and welcome, but six months of that wouldn't begin to cover your debt."

In six months I could be in traction, or dead. I closed my eyes. "I'm in real trouble."

"Yes, I see that." She pushed my chin up gently with her fingertips until I was looking straight into her eyes. "But know this, Randolph: if _you_ are, then _we_ are." She kissed my forehead. "Poor dear. Now, try not to worry. I'll think of something. We'll talk tomorrow."

The next day she called early. "Darling, I think I know what to do. Can I see you after church?"

She came to my place around noon. "Oh, it's quite simple. I'll meet this Jimmy person myself. I'll settle the debt for you."

This made no sense. "Settle it? Settle it with what? Jimmy expects to be paid in money. You don't have any."

"Why, I'll simply negotiate with him, that's all. He's a businessman - of a kind - isn't he? In business, everything is negotiable. You're in business, you should know that."

"Well, sure, but you still have to have something to offer. What are you going to offer him that he'll take, if not money?"

She threw back her head and laughed. "We'll just have to work something out. I'm convinced it can be done. I'm sure he'll make a deal with me."

I wasn't, and I doubted she'd thought this all the way through. (I was mistaken about that, as it turned out.) But she clearly had something in mind. She wouldn't say what, and that made me nervous, but I didn't have any alternatives. I'd just have to trust her.

"Here's what I'd like you to do. Tomorrow, have your office call. . . Rao's, I think. . . yes, Rao's, and reserve a table for two on Saturday evening - you pick the time. Then contact this Jimmy of yours and tell him to meet us at the bar, fifteen minutes or so ahead of the reservation time. You introduce us, then you go home. Your friend and I will dine together, and I'll take care of the whole matter. Won't you like that?"

Oh, yes, I would. But I couldn't see how she expected to pull this miracle off. I said as much. She smiled.

"A girl's entitled to some secrets," she said briskly. "Now, you just put your trust in me, my lad, and everything will work out."

So the next day I had the reservation made, then I called Jimmy and invited him. I told him I wanted him to meet my girlfriend. He said, "I'd rather meet some dead presidents."

"Right, well, this isn't just a social dinner." As if anyone would socialize with Jimmy. "That will be taken care of."

He didn't sound impressed. "Yeah, well, we'll see. By the way, how come a guy who can't pay his debts can afford to take people to Rao's?"

"The lady will be picking up the check."

 _Now_ he sounded impressed. "No kidding? She must like you. I wonder why?"

"Thanks a lot."

Saturday night came around, and so did Sybil, dressed to kill. She'd had her hair done - usually she just tied it back - and wore a simple but expensive black dress. Heels, too, not the usual sensible shoes. This should be some negotiation. Too bad I was going to miss it.

I was still brooding. Jimmy, like bookies everywhere, was a mistrustful sort of person. He might jump to the conclusion that Sybil was some kind of lady cop, wearing a wire.

I mentioned this. Sybil smiled brightly. "Well then, I'll just have to reassure him, won't I?"

"Do you think you can?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure of it. He may think that, but not for long. Leave all that to me."

It all came off as planned. Sybil and I met Jimmy, I introduced them, we had a drink. When the maitre d' came, Jimmy and Sybil followed him to the table. I lagged behind, then peeled off and made for the door. By the time Jimmy saw I wasn't joining them, I'd be gone, and Sybil would be on.

I didn't sleep so well that night - all nerves. I didn't hear from Sybil until Sunday afternoon. She called me, sounding tired but triumphant. "You can stop worrying, darling. Your debt is settled - wiped from the books. You're a free man."

"Thanks. I suppose there's no use asking how?"

"None whatsoever," she said cheerily. "I'm sorry I couldn't see you today, but I'll see you next weekend. For now, I have to run." She hung up.

I puzzled about it all week. I couldn't figure it out. Had she told someone in her family? Not her father, of course, but some favored uncle? Or maybe some brown-nosing junior executive at Connecticut-Atlantic Shipping, the soul of chivalry toward the lady he knew he'd be working for someday? Had to be something like that. Somebody was putting up something of value - money or some kind of favor.

I didn't see Sybil again until Saturday. In fact, she stopped seeing me on Fridays altogether. I didn't think anything of it; as she explained, exams were coming up. On Saturdays, she was insistently bright and upbeat. We had fun.

Anyway, I wasn't sorry to have a little less time with her at this point. Now that my immediate problem was fading into the background, I had time to think about what she'd told me about her money. The more I thought, the less I could see the use of waiting almost ten years for it.

In February I made my move. I took her to a dark little bar in the West Forties, and over a drink I broke it to her.

She was a great girl, we'd had good times, but I couldn't see us ever marrying, I was too old for her, it wasn't fair for me to tie her up, et cetera. It wasn't the first time I'd given this speech. Some women take it better than others.

Sybil took it hard. Her face seemed to collapse. Her jaw hung open slightly. Her voice choked a little.

"But Randolph - I can't believe - I mean, I just don't understand. After everything - I mean, after all we've been through - "

Another woman might have been louder or more tearful, but for Sybil this was real emotion. She looked as though I'd slapped her.

"Sybil - I'm sorry, honey, I know it's hard. But remember last summer? The whole idea of us keeping company was just to have a few laughs - you know, so you could have a break from Mrs. Howell's chinless preppies? Remember?"

Tears came to her eyes. It was only the second time since I'd known her. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head like a child refusing a dose of medicine.

She started to whisper something. I leaned closer. It went something like this:

"No, no, no - oh, God, to think - to think I - all for nothing, all for this - not even done yet - for this - ."

Then, by some supreme act of will, she lifted her head and opened her eyes, looking straight into mine. Her face closed up again, and she was almost the same cool, self-sufficient Sybil I'd met at Sunnybrook, one hot day eight months or a hundred years ago.

"Yes - quite right, Randolph. You - we - that is, you don't owe me a thing." She stood, kissed me on the cheek, and left. I was alone, and the only thing I owed was the bar bill.


	4. It Seemed Kind of Harsh

Chapter 4

It Seemed Kind of Harsh

I never saw Sybil Wentworth again.

I did see the Howells again, though, just once. About a week later, I received a summons - that's the only word for it - to the penthouse on Park Avenue. I was to report - again, the only word - to Mrs. Howell.

I arrived on time, as I always did for any invitation to this place - not that you could exactly call it an invitation. The door opened on smooth silent hinges to reveal a smooth, almost silent butler. "Mr. Blake? I'm to take you in to Mrs. Howell right away."

I followed Jeeves to the sitting room. He knocked on the closed door. "Mr. Blake, ma'am." He opened the door and I went in, feeling a little queasy, as if I were about to meet an unamused Queen Victoria.

She sat in a velvet-upholstered chair in one corner. Opposite her was another chair, this one a battered wooden folding chair from a church basement. _Anything for the comfort of a guest_ , I thought. Only I wasn't a guest. Silently she motioned with her hand: _Sit_. I sat.

She spoke in tones of unconcealed but superbly controlled rage.

"Mr. Blake. I've just returned from Boston. Do you know where Sybil is now?" Boston, presumably, but she obviously meant something more specific, so I just said I didn't know.

"No, I didn't suppose you would. For your information, then, she's in a hospital in the Boston area. Three nights ago, she attempted to do away with herself. . . . You may close your mouth, Mr. Blake. I haven't any idea whether your shock is genuine or feigned, and I couldn't care less. . . . I've been sitting up with Sybil these past two days, and we've had some long talks. Were you aware that, just before you tossed that poor girl aside, she had contracted a . . . disease?"

No, I wasn't. I couldn't even speak. I just shook my head.

"Then you must be equally unaware that she contracted it from an individual to whom _you_ introduced her. An individual to whom you owed money. Over two thousand dollars - quite a substantial sum for most. A debt that Sybil undertook to. . . 'settle' on _your_ behalf. Because _you'd_ asked her for money, and she couldn't give it, and she felt guilty about that and wanted to help you in any way she could."

So that was how. How was I supposed to guess she'd do anything like that?

The ice queen went on. "Two thousand dollars, Mr. Blake. Have you any idea what it takes to get that amount of indebtedness forgiven? Sybil does. She had to agree to pay twenty . . . calls . . . on that _animal_ you call a friend."

Friend? I never said Jimmy was a _friend_. But this wasn't the right time to explain all that, nor the right person to explain it to. I still couldn't speak anyway.

"Has the cat got your tongue, Mr. Blake? Well, he can keep it, as far as I'm concerned. I shan't require much more of your time. You're a sorry excuse for a man. I'm sure I've never met anyone like you before. And if you're wise, you'll ensure that I never meet _you_ again. Good day."

I stood on rubbery legs and made my way to the door, as well and as quickly as I could. When I opened it, Jeeves was waiting. " _Mr_. Howell would also like a word, sir. If you've a moment?" He led me to Howell's den. We did the knock-and-announce routine again and I went in.

Howell, seated behind his desk, didn't offer me a chair. "Blake, as you've spoken with my wife, you must already know that you can no longer remain employed here. I could simply fire you, of course, but in order to get you out of Mrs. Howell's sight, I'm prepared to offer you a position in Honolulu, on the condition that you leave town, _at once_ , to take it up. D'you want it?"

"I'll take it." I was numb. I'd have taken anything.

"Very well. Here's your ticket. You'll leave Idlewild in three hours for San Francisco, where you'll board a connecting flight to Hawaii. Don't bother going home to pack; Howell Industries personnel will gather your effects and send them along. When you arrive, report to this address" - he handed me a business card - "for further instructions. Don't return to New York on _any_ pretext, and keep out of trouble, because I won't do a single thing more for you. Understood? Then be off."

Inside of twenty-four hours, I was standing in an office in Hawaii, listening to some sub-sub-regional pooh-bah explain my new station in life: manager of the Howell Boating store in Honolulu, with nothing to look forward to but twelve-hour days for a quarter of what I'd been pulling down in New York.

It hasn't been all bad. I ended up meeting Rita, and through Rita, Arthur. But all that was in the future.

At the time, it seemed kind of harsh.


	5. Cancel My Subscription

Chapter 5

Cancel My Subscription

When I was a kid in Kansas, a thousand miles from the nearest ocean, I was fascinated by fish.

I read every book in our school library and in the public library that had anything to do with sea life. I once got to go to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago, and that was pretty well the high point of my childhood.

That childhood interest of mine led me to probably the dumbest decision I ever made: I studied marine biology in college. What I found was, it was a lot more like work than I figured on, and for basically no dough. To this day, the only people I know of making any money off "marine biology" are the working girls in the bars around Camp H.M. Smith.

So, of course, I doubled down on my own foolishness and decided to go for my master's degree.

I had a problem at that point: my grades. Not terrible, but nowhere near good enough to get me into grad school. I figured it might help if I could show some kind of indisputably outstanding achievement; then I could tell the admissions honchos that my grades didn't reflect my real ability.

Of course, I had never achieved anything outstanding. But I figured, as long as I could _show_ that I had done it, I didn't have to actually _do_ it.

That's where Roy Hinkley came in.

Speaking of outstanding achievements, Roy had them. He was only about two years older than I was, but he already had two bachelor's degrees, an M.S., and a Ph.D, and was one of the more popular junior professors in the science department. He wasn't a narrow specialist, either; he knew plenty about several scientific fields. It was all connected, he used to say - biology and chemistry and physics and math - so to know any field thoroughly, he had to know something about everything. And he was pretty well informed even about non-scientific areas: law, lit, history, even philosophy.

I didn't know something about everything. Hell, I didn't know very much about anything. But I knew one very important thing. I knew about Roy's big paper.

Not that it was any secret that he was working on something for publication. He'd been working on this since he was an undergraduate, and he talked about it pretty freely. I'd seen some of it myself; in my junior year, I'd been one of the undergrads permitted to work as Roy's research assistants.

Assigning research assistants to a mere associate professor wasn't the usual thing at all, but Roy was something special; even the university could see that. Of course, if he'd been more senior, he'd have gotten the better students as assistants; as it was, he got. . . me.

And having been one of Roy's assistants, I knew another important thing: where his drafts and notes were kept.

It wouldn't take Raffles to get at them. The science department offices weren't usually locked, and neither were the filing cabinets. The problem was, I couldn't just go in and lift Roy's most recent draft from the file. He might miss it.

But he probably wouldn't miss his next-most-recent draft. I could midnight-requisition that, take it home for as long as I needed, type up my own copy, then return it. Then I'd look at his most recent draft and pencil in any changes on my copy.

It worked beautifully. And I lucked out: the paper was nearly complete. It took me maybe three weeks to get my own version into shape. Then I sent it to _The Southeastern New England Journal of Ichthyology_ in Woods Hole.

A couple of weeks later, Woods Hole sent me a very enthusiastic letter. This paper was an astounding achievement for an undergraduate, they wanted to publish it, and could I come to Boston to meet the editor? Well, sure.

It didn't take long for the meeting to turn chilly.

They wanted to see my notes.

Well, I hadn't brought them - I'd had no notice that they'd be needed. The editor understood that, of course; he hadn't meant _right this minute_ , but couldn't I send them parcel post, or better yet bring them with me on a return trip?

I tried bluster. I wasn't made of money, I was an impecunious undergraduate; how was I supposed to afford all this? The editor wasn't buying. By the time we were through, he was looking at me through narrowed eyes and making noises about contacting my dean for a little chat on the subject of academic dishonesty.

He did, too. And that's why I never got my B.S. in marine biology.

I still like to visit aquariums. We have a good one right here in Honolulu, one of the country's oldest, in fact. Sometimes I take girls there. But other than aquarium visits, I haven't spared marine biology a thought in a dozen years.

That ended tonight. It ended when Roy Hinkley came striding in.

He hasn't aged much. I knew him right away. He looked mad.

Like old Howell earlier, Roy launched right into his grievance. He spoke with the same precise articulation I remembered from the university. "Blake, I worked for seven years on my marine biology paper, and you stole it."

"Hi, Roy, nice to see you too. Now, what's all this?"

That took him by surprise. "What do you mean, 'what's all this'? I said, you stole my marine biology paper! You took credit for it and submitted it to a scientific journal as your own work! Do you deny it?"

"No, no, not at all. But that was twelve years ago, Roy. Water under the bridge, you might say." He didn't smile. Roy never did have much of a sense of humor. "Are you just now finding out about it, or something?"

"Oh, I knew about it. When the editor in Woods Hole called the dean, there was an investigation to find out whom you'd stolen that paper from, and it wasn't long before we ascertained that I was your victim. But the dean and the department chairman asked me not to speak to you until they did. Before I had a chance to, you were gone. It's taken me this long to track you down. "

"So you've been waiting twelve years just to tell me off, or what?"

"That paper would have made me a name in the field! As it was, I failed to get tenure. Why? Because I hadn't _published_ enough. The next thing I knew, I was back in Cleveland, teaching high-school science."

"Not good enough for you, huh?"

That stung him, I think. "As a matter of fact, I find it extremely fulfilling. But that wasn't what I slaved for seven years of intensive study to accomplish."

Something about this wasn't making sense. "Well, then, why don't you publish it now, for Chrissakes? For that matter, why haven't you published it in the twelve years since I got booted from school? I didn't make off with your only copy, right?"

"No, of course not," he said impatiently. "But how could I publish a paper that had already been submitted for publication by someone else? How would I prove it was mine? After all, the mere fact that you stole it doesn't logically prove that I didn't."

"So did you?"

"I most certainly did not," he snapped. "Don't judge everyone by your own standards, Blake."

"I never judge anyone. And I don't have any standards, either."

"That much is obvious," he said bitterly.

"What about your notes?"

"My notes?"

"Your _notes_ , Roy. Your research notes. Wouldn't they prove the work was yours?"

I really don't think this had ever occurred to him. "Well, I - maybe. I don't know. Maybe having it stolen just ruined the whole thing for me. After what you did, it was years before I could even stand to look at it again. It's too late now, in any case. All that research has been superseded ten times over."

"Okay, well, sorry to hear that, Roy. What do you want from me - tears? Why are you here in the first place?"

He looked at me coldly. "I intend to see to it that you never steal anything from anyone ever again."

That sounded pretty final. I braced for a fight. Roy didn't look to be heeled, so it would be fists. I could live with that. He was in good shape, but we should be about evenly matched.

Hey, wait - he was turning away. He was walking toward the door.

That could be good - or bad. Was he coming back with a piece? Or maybe a carload of friends?

When he got to the door, he turned on his heel.

"As of tomorrow," he said, biting the words off, "your subscription to the _Scientific Quarterly_ will be canceled!"

He pivoted again and walked out.

 _No! Not that!_ A fate worse than death! I had to laugh.

My subscription to the _Scientific Quarterly_!

Do I still _have_ a subscription to the _Scientific Quarterly_?

I guess I must. Come to think of it, I suppose that's how Roy found me.

What's more, he must practically run the thing, or at least he's got to have some serious pull with whoever does run it. How else could he go rummaging through the subscriber list - let alone unilaterally cancel a man's subscription? So I guess he made some sort of a name for himself, at that.

Well, to hell with him, then. Why should I feel for him? _I_ came out of that business worse than he did; after all, I got kicked out of school. He has a fulfilling job - he says - plus he ended up running the _Scientific Quarterly_ , marine biology paper or no marine biology paper.

What's he got to be sore about, anyway?


	6. A Touch of Ginger

Chapter 6

A Touch of Ginger

I saw Ginger tonight, too.

But I was supposed to see Ginger tonight. She's in Hawaii on tour - club dates, a couple of USO shows - and we've been going out a couple of nights a week. She was due to meet me at the store not long after Roy left. After my other visitors, I was looking forward to it. A date would take me out of the danger zone, and it would be fun. A nice dinner, a good bottle of wine, and Ginger across the table, looking lovely and telling me about tonight's singing engagement or her last film, or delivering another hilarious installment of Evil Producers I Have Known. Forget your troubles, c'mon, get happy. Absolutely nothing serious.

That's what I was expecting, anyway.

I've known Ginger a while now. When I left Kansas in 1958, old Rufe said he could fix me up in New York, but it would take time. Meanwhile, I headed for the West Coast. There I landed a job as an assistant PR flack at Laughingwell Pictures, a then-minor studio, now defunct, and deservedly so. The pay was low, but the prestige - well, that was even lower.

Ginger was making a picture there at the time; I think she was Sandra Dee's best friend in a Gidget movie, or something like that. She wasn't as well-known back then, obviously. Anyway, one fine morning she came breezing into the PR office. She focused on me - probably for no better reason than because I was the first male she happened to see - and for the first time I got the Ginger Grant Treatment.

She seemed to come at me from all sides at once, with brilliant smiles, veiled glances, seductive murmurs, whispers, a light touch of fingertips on the cheek or forearm - I don't remember the half of it, but I was dazed by the time she left. When a woman like that - no, when _that_ woman is giving you a hundred percent of her attention, you'll promise her anything, and I did.

I don't even remember what she wanted now, but I did it for her, whatever it was, and my reward was an invitation to grab lunch with her in the commissary. I didn't get the Treatment this time - she didn't _want_ anything this time - but she was friendly and fun and easy to talk to, and she really seemed to like me.

After that, I kept a close eye on the picture she was making, and when I knew her scenes were in the can, I called her up. She said yes, and we dated until I left town about eight months later. I remember she used to say I was "irresistible." Especially when she wanted me to take her to Chasen's or do some unauthorized extra work on her press kit, of course. But sometimes just for the hell of it. Either way, it always sounded wonderful. And when old Rufe finally finagled the job at Howell Industries for me and I boarded the train for New York, she cried a little.

You'd think my going all the way across the continent would be the end of us. Well, you'd be wrong. Between club dates, Broadway casting calls, and the occasional TV commercial, it turned out Ginger spent about half her life in New York. I used to wonder when she had time to make movies.

One nice thing about working at Howell Industries was, I could take Ginger or other girls to some swell joint like _Tour d'Argent_ on West 47th - Ginger loved that place - and slap it on my expense account. Which, strictly speaking, I had no business doing. But if you happen to work directly for Thurston Howell III, the accountants at Howell Industries don't speak to you all that strictly.

Even my Hawaiian exile hasn't been the end. Ginger made a picture here last year - some nonsense about a girl getting sacrificed to a volcano - and when she had any free time, it was mine. And the singing tour she's on now is at least her third since I've been in Honolulu. If she spends much more time down here, she'll be eligible to run against Governor Burns.

After tonight, though, I don't think the governor needs to worry.

Ginger was on time tonight. She sashayed in wearing one of the low-cut sequined gowns she loves. "I'm here. . . Randolph," she said in a voice like a caress.

I stepped out from behind the counter. "Am I glad to see _you_ , darling. Where would you like to - "

Coming right up to me, she purred, "They tell me you're getting married next week."

So much for my fun evening. "They tell you true," I said.

"Oh, Randolph. . . how can you, after all this time? I thought we were serious. I thought you cared. After all that time I spent with you in New York. . . and since you've been here, I came whenever I could. . . ."

She thought we were serious? This _was_ serious.

She looked down, making little circles on my chest with her forefinger. "Randolph?" she murmured. "Don't you remember the time you took me to the aquarium in San Diego? That dark room with the phosphorescent fish . . . we were the only ones there . . . remember how we kissed, with those beautiful glowing jellyfish floating and pulsating all around us in the dark. . ." She looked up into my eyes. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

I remembered that, all right. And it sure meant something to me. Only not quite the same thing it meant to Ginger, I guess.

" _Ran-_ dolph," she cooed, "now, c'mon, lover, what's she got that Ginger hasn't got?"

The honest answer would have been: a father with undisclosed points in the Desert Inn. But I have a real strict policy against giving honest answers to girls, so I clammed up. Ginger was carrying the conversation anyway.

She grasped my lapels and pulled me toward her, gently but insistently. "I can make you forget her."

"I bet you can't."

Actually, I was pretty sure she could. She always can. Problem is, when I'm with Rita, she can make me forget Ginger too. So can Alice, Gloria. and Jackie. Whenever I'm with Girl A, whoever she is, I tend to forget all about Girl B, whoever _she_ is. Also Girls C, D, and so on through the alphabet.

So, as I say, I didn't doubt she could make me forget Rita. But I wanted her to try, so I issued the challenge.

For a few seconds I even thought it was working. I should have known better - this girl is one cool customer.

But she seemed pretty hot right then.

Her fingers glided over my shoulders. Her lips were almost touching mine. "Kiss me," she whispered. "Kiss me, Randolph."

So I did.

It's hard to describe - her soft sweet warm breath in my nostrils; how she moved her body in slowly and gradually increased the pressure; the way her hands tightened around my shoulders and back while mine slipped around her waist - but I was dizzy when we finally separated.

"Now," she whispered, "don't you wanna call your fiancee? Tell her the engagement's off? For Ginger?"

"Um, I, uhh. . . well, no, why would I want to do that?"

She drew back. Her green eyes narrowed. "I thought you were gonna forget her?"

I spread my hands. "But - well - but, honey, I'm engaged. Hell, the wedding's in a week. I can't just call her up at this point and say, it's off, now, can I?" Damn right I can't, not with a job in Vegas on the line. Not to mention Arthur might just have those associates of his dump me into Kahana Bay.

"No. . . . Obviously you can't," she said. Not in an understanding sort of way. You could have grated walnuts on that voice.

I went on. "I mean, though, if I'm married. . . we can still see each other, that doesn't have to change. Honest, I'm not narrow-minded about that or anything."

She stiffened. Her eyes spat green fire.

She slapped my face.

Hard.

"You'll pay for this! You know what they say about a woman scorned! I'll never see you again!" She wheeled and stalked off.

I hope she doesn't mean that. That is, I _think_ I hope she doesn't mean that.

She really does hit hard.

Who knew these Hollywood broads were so choosy about stepping out with married men, anyway?

The condition Ginger left me in - the slap didn't change that. I've been slapped by girls before - real experts, some of them - and usually it's about as good as a cold shower for what ails you. But when the "ailment" comes from Ginger Grant rubbing up against you, it doesn't go away that easy.

Anyway, I'm going to need some company for the evening. Maybe I'll call Alice, Gloria, or Jackie - in a pinch, maybe even Rita. If I can pry her away from her mom and her bridesmaids for a couple of hours, that is.


	7. Avenging Angel

Chapter 7

Avenging Angel

About ten minutes after Ginger left, this skirt walked in, and for one brief shining moment, I thought my prayers were going to be answered. But that's only because I didn't know her right away.

Walked in? No, she marched in, five feet three inches of crusading zeal, with her chin high and a grim look on her face. She was wearing a red gingham dress. Uh-oh - that meant Kansas. (They should have made the state flag out of gingham.) And that meant trouble. No matter who it was. I don't have many friends left in Kansas.

She was young and pretty - _real_ pretty - but even if she hadn't been wearing that look, it was easy to see she wasn't going to offer the type of assistance I needed. She looked like a nun (if Methodists had nuns). Sixty-five years ago, she'd have been in Abilene or Kansas City with a hatchet, looking for barrooms to smash up.

Seeing the expression on her face, I kind of wished she was there now.

The expression was easy enough to figure. Like I said, I don't have many friends in Kansas. Plenty of people back there would look at me like that if they saw me. I didn't know her, so of course I didn't know just what she was mad _about_ , but who needed to?

Then she said:

"Mr. Blake. . . ."

And the years fell away, and I knew exactly who this was. It was Jack Summers' daughter. Of course.

"Mary Lou!"

Her mouth made a perfect little O. O for outrage. "Why - you don't even _know_ me, do you ?"

"Oh, sure I do - you're Jack Summers' little girl. Mary. . . Kate?"

"It's Mary _Ann_ , you - you - ."

Typical Kansas girl. Knows me for what I am, sure enough, but doesn't have the vocabulary to describe it. Well, there's lots of sailors in Hawaii; maybe she'll meet one, and he'll teach her the words. Only I won't be around to listen to her try to use them.

"Aw, Mary Ann. . . . It's been years! Got a kiss for Uncle Randy?"

Her big brown eyes were like the double barrels of a 12-gauge, firing hatred at me like deer slugs.

" _Uncle_! When did I ever call _you_ _that_?"

She had me there. Never would call me anything but "Mr. Blake," even when she was working in the feed store her father and I had. And now here she was, still calling me "Mister" like the good little Kansas girl she was, showing respect to her elders whether she respected them or not. Just like Jack taught her.

But why _was_ she here? Wheat prices must be pretty good if Kansas farmers can afford to vacation in Hawaii. Leaving aside the fact that Jack Summers was dead broke when I last saw him.

"Mary Ann, how's your dad? Is he in town?"

Her voice was like the north wind blowing out of Canada. (How I hated that wind!)

"My father died five years ago, Mr. Blake."

"Mary Ann, I'm so -"

"Sorry? That's a laugh. You caused it."

" _What_?" I've done a lot but I never killed anyone, ever. And Jack was alive when I left Winfield.

"You were his partner in the feed store. You used him, you lied to him and cheated him, you forced him into bankruptcy." She went on in that cold, cutting tone. "He couldn't support me and my mother. The stress killed him. He died of a heart attack. My mother and I had to move in with Uncle George and Aunt Martha."

"Oh - George, sure, I remember George."

Well, now things were getting awkward.

If I needed Mary Ann, dealing with her would've been tricky. Lucky for me, I don't need her. All I wanted was to get rid of her. The way you do this is with open rudeness or naked effrontery. I decided on effrontery.

"Well, sweetheart -"

"Don't call me that, if you don't mind." Those eyes - if that girl had been packing, I would have been in serious trouble. Thank God she never noticed that speargun by the door.

"Sorry, _sweetheart_ , but you're standing in _my_ place of business, and I do mind. As I was about to say: Your dad was a nice guy, but no businessman. And not much of a farmer, either, by the looks of things."

She used an expression I didn't think a well-brought-up little sunflower like this would even know. "You go to hell!"

My, she must have been upset, to say a thing like that.

"Well, it's true. After all, if he hadn't lost his acreage to the bank in '56, he'd never have gone into business with me in the first place."

She clenched her little fists until her knuckles went white. "That's not true! It wasn't his fault! There was a recession! Even I understood that, young as I was! _Lots_ of farmers went under in '56!"

"Yep - and lots didn't. Still plenty of farmers back in Kansas, hon. Even _I_ know _that_ , long as I've been away. Survival of the fittest, right? Just think, doll - if Jack had been any kind of a farmer at all, you'd be the uncrowned princess of Winfield today."

She was starting to turn scarlet, and her eyes were huge, taking up about half her face. But she still wasn't moving. Time to go for the knockout.

"You know, kid, I guess I do sort of owe you something, at that. Maybe I could make things up to you a little bit? Tell you what: how'd you like to come live down here? I could set you up in a little apartment, if you'd be willing to, you know, see me once in a while. . . ."

I winked at her.

I was bluffing, of course. I can't afford to set any girls up in any little apartments. Not yet anyway. Would that I could. But I knew how she'd react.

" _You don't deserve to live!_ " she screamed.

I laughed at her.

"Maybe not, little girl. Maybe not. But what are _you_ gonna do about _that_?"

She stamped her foot. " _I hate you_!" She burst into tears and ran out of the store.

I shouted after her, "What - no kiss?"

So much for that. Too bad, though, in a way. Now I'll never know what she's doing in Honolulu.

Well, way past time to go home. Why work overtime, when I may not have a job in the morning anyway? Old Howell didn't actually fire me tonight, but I suppose he just forgot. Anyway, I really should get out of here. God knows who'll show up next.

But as Scarlett O'Hara says, tomorrow is another day. At least, tomorrow can't be much worse.

I mean, today was just not my day.


End file.
